Elak said, “Orander rules Cyrena. Do you ask me to join a rebellion against my brother?” An angry light showed in the adventurer’s cold eyes.
“Orander is dead,” the Druid said quietly. “Elak, I have a tale to tell you, a tale of sorcery and black evil that has cast its shadow over Cyrena. But first—” He fumbled in his shapeless brown robe and drew forth a tiny crystal sphere. He cupped it in his palm; breathed upon it. The clear surface clouded, misted—and the fog seemed to permeate the entire globe. The Druid held a ball of whirling gray cloud in his hand.
Within the sphere a picture grew, microscopic but vividly distinct. Elak peered closely. He saw a throne, and a man who sat upon it.
“South of Cyrena, beyond the mountains, lies Kiriath,” Dalan said. “Sepher ruled it. And now Sepher still sits upon his throne, but he is no longer human.”
In the globe the face of Sepher sprang out in startling clarity. Involuntarily Elak drew back, his lips thinning. At a casual glance Sepher seemed unchanged, a black-bearded, bronzed giant with the keen eyes of a hawk, but Elak knew that he looked upon a creature loathsome beyond anything on earth. It was not evil, as he knew it, but a thing beyond good and evil as it was beyond humanity or deity. A Presence from Outside had touched Sepher and taken Kiriath’s king for its own. And Elak knew this was the most horrible being he had ever seen.
Dalan hid the crystal. He said coldly, “Out of the unknown has come a being named Karkora. What he is I know not. I have cast the runes, and they say little to me. The altar fires have whispered of a shadow that will come upon Cyrena, a shadow that may spread over all Atlantis. Karkora, the Pallid One, is not human, nor is he a demon. He is—alien, Elak.”
“What of my brother?” the adventurer asked.
“You have seen Sepher,” Dalan said. “He is possessed, a vessel of this entity called Karkora. Ere I left Orander, he, too, had—changed.”
A muscle twitched in Elak’s brown cheek. The Druid went on.
“Orander saw his doom. Day by day the power of Karkora over him increased, and the soul of your brother was driven further into the outer dark. He died—by his own hand.”
Elak’s face did not change expression. But for minutes he was silent, a deep sorrow in his gray eyes.
Lycon turned to look out across the sea.
The Druid went on, “Orander sent a message to you, Elak. You, in all Atlantis, are of the royal line of Cyrena. Yours, therefore, is the crown. It will not be easy to hold. Karkora is not defeated. But my magic will aid you.”
Elak said, “You offer me the dragon throne?”
Dalan nodded.
“The years have changed me, Dalan. I have gone through Atlantis a vagabond and worse. I put my birthright behind me and forgot it. And I’m not the same man who went from Cyrena years ago,” Elak said softly, laughing a little bitterly, and looking over the jetty’s edge at his face reflected in the dark swell of the water. “Only a king may sit on the dragon throne. For me—it would be a jest. And a sorry one.”
“You fool!” the Druid whispered—and there was rage in the sibilant sound. “Blind, mad fool! Do you think the Druids would offer Cyrena to the wrong man? Blood of kings is in your veins, Elak. It is not yours to deny. You must obey.”
“Must?” The word was spoken lightly, yet Lycon felt a tenseness go through him, tightening his muscles. “Must?” Elak asked.
“The decision is mine, Druid. By Mider! The throne of Cyrena means much to me. Therefore I shall not sit in it!”
Dalan’s toad face was gargoylish in the moonlight. He thrust his bald, glistening head forward, and his thick, stubby fingers twisted.
“Now am I tempted to work magic on you, Elak,” he said harshly. “I am no—”
“I have given you my answer.”
The Druid hesitated. His somber eyes dwelt on Elak. Then, without a word, he turned and went lumbering off into the night. His footsteps died.
Elak remained staring out at the harbor. His cheeks were gray, his mouth a tortured white line. And he whirled, abruptly, and looked at the hills of Poseidonia.
But he did not see them. His gaze went beyond them, far and far, probing through all Atlantis to the kingdom of the north—Cyrena, and the dragon throne.
3. THE GATES OF DREAM
Churel and ghoul and Djinn and sprite
Shall bear us company tonight,
For we have reached the Oldest Land
Wherein the powers of Darkness range.
—Kipling
Elak’s sleep that night was broken by dreams—flashing, disordered visions of many things. He stared up at the white moonlit ceiling of the apartment. And—it was changed. The familiar room was gone. Light still existed, but it was oddly changed—grayish and unreal. Unearthly planes and angles slipped past Elak, and in his ears a low humming grew. This changed to a high-pitched, droning whine, and died away at last.
The mad planes reassembled themselves. In his dream Elak saw a mighty crag upthrust against cold stars—colossal against a background of jagged mountain peaks. Snow dappled them, but the darkness of the crag was unbroken. On its top was a tower, dwarfed by distance.
A flood seemed to lift Elak and bear him swiftly forward. In the base of the crag, he saw, were great iron gates. And these parted and swung aside, yawning for him as he moved through.
They shut silently behind him.
And now Elak became conscious of a Presence. It was stygian black; yet in the tenebrous darkness there was a vague inchoate stirring, a sense of motion that was unmistakable.
Without warning Elak saw—the Pallid One!
A white and shining figure flashed into view. How tall it was, how close or distant, the man could not tell. Nor could he see more than the bare outline. A crawling, leprous shimmer of cold light rippled over the being; it seemed little more than a white shadow. But a shadow—three-dimensional, alive!
The unearthly terror of Karkora, the Pallid One!
The being seemed to grow larger. Elak knew he was watched, coldly and dispassionately. His senses were no longer dependable. It did not seem as though he beheld Karkora with his eyes alone—he was no longer conscious of his body.
He remembered Dalan, and Dalan’s god. And he cried silently upon Mider for aid.
The shuddering loathing that filled him did not pass, but the horror that tore at his mind was no longer as strong. Again he cried to Mider, forcing himself to concentrate on the Druid god.
Once more Elak called out to Mider. And, silently, eerily, a wall of flame rose about him, shutting off the vision of Karkora. The warm, flickering fires of Mider were a protective barrier—earthly, friendly.
They closed in—drew him back. They warmed the chill horror that froze his mind. They changed to sunlight—and the sunlight was slanting in through the window, beside which Elak lay on his low bed, awake and shuddering with reaction.
“By the Nine Hells!” he cursed, leaping up swiftly. “By all the gods of Atlantis! Where’s my rapier?” He found it, and whirled it hissing through the air. “How can a man battle dreams?”
He turned to Lycon, slumbering noisily nearby, and kicked the small man into wakefulness.
“Hog-swill,” said Lycon, rubbing his eyes. “Bring another cup, and swiftly, or I’ll—eh? What’s wrong?”
Elak was dressing hastily. “What’s wrong? Something I didn’t expect. How could I know from Dalan’s words the sort of thing that’s come to life in Atlantis?” He spat in disgust. “That leprous foulness shall never take the dragon throne!”
He slammed his rapier into its scabbard. “I’ll find Dalan, I’ll go back with him. To Cyrena.”
Elak was silent, but deep in his eyes was a black horror and loathing. He had seen the Pallid One. And he knew that never in words could he hope to express the burning foulness of alien Karkora.
But Dalan had vanished. It was impossible to find the Druid in teeming Poseidonia. And at last Elak give up hope and determined to take matters into his own hands. A galley c
alled Kraken was leaving that day, he learned, and would beat up the western coast. In fact, by the time Elak had hired a boatman to take him and Lycon to the vessel, the galley’s oars were already dipping into the swells.
Elak’s cockleshell gained its side, and he clambered over the gunwale, hoisting Lycon after him. He tossed a coin to the boatman and saw the man depart.
The sweating backs of slaves were moving rhythmically under the lash of the overseers. One of these came forward at a run, his bronzed face angry.
“Who are you?” he hailed. “What do you seek on the Kraken?”
“Take us to your captain,” Elak said shortly. His hand touched the heavy purse at his belt, and coins jingled. The overseer was impressed.
“We’re putting to sea,” he said. “What do you want?”
“Passage to Cyrena,” Lycon snapped. “Be—”
“Bring them here, Rasul,” a gruff voice broke in. “They are friends. We’ll give them passage to Cyrena—aye!”
And Drezzar, Elak’s opponent in the tavern brawl, hastened along the poop toward them, teeth gleaming in his bushy beard.
“Ho!” he yelled at a nearby group of armed seamen. “Seize those two! Take them—alive! You dog,” Drezzar said with cold rage. He stood before Elak and lifted his hand as though to strike the captive.
Elak said stoically, “I want passage to Cyrena. I’ll pay well for it.”
“So you will,” Drezzar grinned, and ripped off Elak’s purse. He opened it and ran golden coins through his thick fingers. “You’ll work for it, too. But you’ll not reach Cyrena.”
“Two more oarsmen for you, Rasul. Two more slaves.
“See that they work!”
He turned and strode away. Unresisting, Elak was dragged to a vacant oar and chained there, Lycon shackled beside him. His hands fell in well-worn grooves on the polished wood.
Rasul’s whip cracked. The overseer called, “Pull! Pull!”
The Kraken sped seaward. And, chained to his oar, straining at the unaccustomed toil, Elak’s dark wolf-face bore a smile that was not pleasant to see.
4. THE SHIP SAILS NORTH
Orpheus has harped her,
Her prow has sheared the spray,
Fifty haughty heroes at her golden oarlocks sway,
White the wave before her flings,
Bright from shore she lifts and swings,
Wild he twangs the ringing strings—
Give way! Give way!
—Benet
They drove down along the coast and skirted the southern tip of Atlantis. Then the galley crept northwest, up the long curve of the continent, and all the while the days were cloudless and fair, and the skies blue as the waters of the Ocean Sea.
Elak bided his time until the Kraken dropped anchor one afternoon at an uninhabited island, to replenish the water supply. Drezzar went ashore with a dozen others, leaving only a few men in charge of the ship. This was apparently safe enough, with the slaves chained. Moreover, Drezzar had the only keys. But, at sunset, Elak nudged Lycon awake and told him to keep watch.
“What for?” Lycon’s voice was surly. “Do you—” He broke off, staring, as Elak took a tiny twisted bit of metal from his sandal and inserted it delicately in the lock of his ankle-cuff. “Gods!” Lycon cursed. “You had that all the time—and you waited till now!”
“These locks are easy to pick,” Elak said. “What? Of course I waited! We’ve only a few enemies aboard now, instead of more than a dozen. Keep watch, I tell you.”
Lycon obeyed. Footsteps creaked upon the deck occasionally, and there were lanterns here and there on the ship, but their illumination was faint enough. The lapping of water against the hull drowned the soft scrape and click as Elak worked. Presently he sighed in satisfaction and opened the cuff.
Metal clicked and scraped. Elak was free. He turned to Lycon—and then hurrying footsteps sounded on the raised deck. Rasul, the overseer, ran up, dragging his long whip. He peered down—and dragged out his sword, cursing. With the other hand he swept the whip in a great singing blow, smashing down on Elak’s unprotected shoulders.
Lycon acted. In one swift motion he flung himself forward, guarding Elak; the lash ripped skin and flesh from Lycon’s side. And then Elak’s sinewy hand closed on the tough hide; he pulled mightily—pulled it from Rasul’s grasp.
“Ho!” the overseer shouted. “Ho! To me!” His voice roared out over the dark sea. His long sword was a pale flickering light in the glow of the lanterns.
Two more men, armed, came running up behind Rasul. They spread out and closed in on Elak. He grinned unpleasantly, as a wolf smiles. The whip was coiled in his hand.
It sprang out suddenly, like a striking snake. The fanged, vicious tip hissed shrilly. In the dimness the lash was difficult to see, impossible to dodge. Rasul roared in pain.
“Slay him!” the overseer shouted.
The three ran in, and Elak gave way, his wrist turning as he swung the whip. A thrown dagger brought blood from the Atlantean’s shoulder. And a man staggered back, screaming shrilly, clawing at his eyes that were blinded by the tearing rip of the lash.
“Slay me, then,” Elak whispered, cold laughter in his eyes. “But the dog’s fangs are sharp, Rasul.”
He caught a glimpse of Lycon, bent above his bonds, busily manipulating the bit of metal that would unlock them. Voices called from the shore. Rasul shouted a response, and then ducked and gasped as the whip shrieked through the dark air.
“’Ware my fangs, Rasul!” Elak smiled mirthlessly.
And now the two—Rasul and his companion—were in turn giving way. Step by step Elak forced them back, under the threat of the terrible lash. They could not guard against it, could not see it. Out of the gloom it would come striking, swift as a snake’s thrust, leaping viciously at their eyes. The slaves were awake and straining in their chains, calling encouragement to Elak. The man who had been blinded made a misstep and fell among the rowers. They surged up over him; lean hands reached and clawed in the lantern-light. He screamed for a time, and then made no further sound.
Lycon’s voice rose, shrill and peremptory, above the tumult.
“Row!” he yelped. “Row, slaves! Ere Drezzar returns—row for your freedom!” Alternately he cursed and threatened and cajoled them, and worked at his bonds with flying fingers.
Elak heard a whisper at his side, saw a slave thrusting a sword at him, hilt-first—the blade the blinded one had dropped. Gratefully he seized it, hurling the whip away. The feel of the cool, leather-bound hilt was grateful. Tides of strength surged up Elak’s arm from the sharp steel.
It was not his rapier—but it would do.
“My fangs, Rasul,” he said, laughing—and ran in. His two opponents spread out, but he had foreseen that move. He turned his back on Rasul, cut at the other, and almost in the same motion whirled and leaped past, dodging a thrust by a hair’s-breadth. And now Rasul only faced him. The other man was down, tearing at a throat sliced through to the spine.
Lycon shouted, “Row, slaves! For your lives!”
The long oars clacked and moved in confusion; then habit stepped in, and rhythmically, slowly, the blades dug into the sea. Lycon yelled a chant, and the slaves kept time to it. Gradually the galley gained way.
On the deck swords flamed and clashed. But Elak was not fated to slay Rasul. The overseer stumbled, dropped to one knee—and hands reached for him out of the dark. Shouting, he was dragged down among the slaves. Voices rose to a yelping crescendo of hate. Rasul screamed—and was silent.
Lycon leaped up, free from his chains. He cursed the rowers; their momentary inattention to their duty had caused confusion. An oar, caught among others, splintered and broke. The butt bent like a bow, snapped back, and smashed a slave’s face to bloody ruin. From overside came cries and commands.
The face of Drezzar rose above the rail, hideous, contorted, the scar flaming red. He gripped his sword between his teeth. After him armed men came pouring.
Lycon, a captur
ed blade bare in his hand, ran toward them, yelling objurgations at the slaves. The oars moved again, tore at the sea, sent the galley through the waves once more. A slave had long since cut the anchor-rope.
A dozen armed men, swords gleaming, were ringed about Lycon, who, his back against the mast, was valiantly battling and cursing in lurid oaths. A few steps away Drezzar came catlike, and murder was in his eyes. He saw Elak stir, and ran in, blade ready.
Elak did not stoop to recover his sword. He sprang forward, under the sweep of the steel, which Drezzar had not expected. The two men went down together, rolling on the blood-slippery deck.
Drezzar tried to reverse the sword in his hand and stab Elak in the back. But Elak’s supple body writhed aside, and simultaneously his lean, sinewy fingers closed on Drezzar’s, above the hilt of the blade.
Drezzar tried to turn the blow, but could not. Elak continued his enemy’s thrust. And the sword went smoothly into Drezzar’s belly, without pausing till it grated against the backbone.
“My fangs, Drezzar,” Elak said very softly, and with no expression on his wolf-face—and then drove the sword further in till it pinned the captain, like a beetle, to the deck. Drezzar’s mouth opened; a roaring exhalation of breath, fraught with ghastly agony, seemed torn out of the man. His hands beat the deck; his body doubled up and arched like a bow.
He coughed blood, gnashed his teeth till they splintered and cracked—and so died.
Elak sprang up. He saw a heavy iron key hanging at Drezzar’s belt. This he tore away and cast down among the slaves. A grateful clamor came in response.
Lycon called frantically for aid. Elak responded. But now the outcome of the battle was a foregone conclusion. One by one the freed slaves passed the iron key to their neighbors and came springing up to add their numbers to Elak’s cause. And, presently, the last of the ship’s masters lay dead on deck, and the oarsmen—no longer in chains, no longer slaves—sent the galley plunging through the dark sea to the north.
Elak of Atlantis Page 13
